The photographer nodded and D’Arcy noticed another smile settle on her lips. “He is kind. People don’t think so because he seems like such a serious person but sometimes you just have to be patient with people and let them reveal themselves to you. The same way you wouldn’t rush past a photograph in an exhibition; you’d take time to consider it and study it from every angle before you made a decision.”

D’Arcy didn’t know what to say in response. Was the photographer asking her to take her time before she did anything rash? Or saying that Josh was worthy of time? It didn’t matter though; D’Arcy didn’t have time because she was leaving at the end of next week. “Josh said I could come to see you,” she said instead.

The photographer nodded. “I want to photograph you.” She said it as if that were the subject of their meeting. “I thought I needed to do it formally. But I’ve changed my mind. I might take some shots of you every now and again when you’re working, or in the garden. If you don’t mind.”

“But why…?” D’Arcy began.

“Call it a whim. A beautiful young woman who’s at the age when she has the whole world ahead of her, when the decisions she makes will either be the best or hardest to live with in the years to come.”

The words settled on D’Arcy like a fur coat in summer. “That sounds ominous.”

“Only if you make the wrong decisions.”

“Did you?” D’Arcy couldn’t stop herself asking.

The photographer nodded. “They were both the worst and best decisions I could have made.”

It was the moment to ask. And the words came out in a rush. “Are you Jessica May? The Children series has definite echoes of her work and—”

“I have an attic full of Jessica May’s photographs. Of course I’m Jessica May.” She said it as though it had never been in question. “But you can call me Jess.”

D’Arcy gaped, just as she’d worried she might, but it was more at the casual way the revelation had been disclosed. After taking so much trouble for so many years to hide who she was, Jessica May was, in just a couple of offhand sentences, giving up the secret of the photographer’s identity. “Wow,” D’Arcy managed at last. She shook her head. “Sorry, it’s just…incredible.”

“I doubt that many people would care. Not anymore.” The photographer—Jess—pulled herself out of her chair, gripping the arms for support, and walked carefully over to the window.

“Are you kidding? Of course people will care. I care.”

“That’s very sweet of you.”

She spoke as if D’Arcy were being polite, or doing her a favor. Not as if D’Arcy was reacting with genuine excitement about meeting a woman who was a hero of the art world, if the art world could ever be thought of as having heroes. “But why me?” D’Arcy blurted. “And why now? Why would you choose a complete stranger to tell that to?”